"the" Mrs. Astor

Fashion comes in many forms here in Miami. There are the “fashionistas” like Leopoldo and Ditmar whose closets carry enough Versace and Prada to outfit an army, and the laid-back tropical set, of which I am a card-carrying member. When you live and work in a beach of scantily-clad people, it is very easy to fall into the mode of “less is more”. Dressing up for me now only means the Thurston Howell III Palm Beach Look. It is so easy, now.

But, there was a time—in New York—in which I, too, was a fashionista; you had to be if you went out every night, but it could be very costly if you weren’t clever. My boyfriend and I had found an invaluable, Vietnamese seamstress who could knock off a Jean Paul Gaultier suit in two days and I was the constant companion of the manager of Matsuda’s stores, which automatically got me a 90% discount there. (The more I took her out, the larger the disounts became; I was a monster.) Matsuda’s latest British school boy jacket would be passed on to the seamstress and clones in different fabrics, purchased in Delancey Street Jewish fabric stores, would suddenly appear.

One hung over Sunday morning I got it into my head to visit the Astor Place store of one of the darlings of The Lower East Side, Katy K. Katy had a line of couture Western wear, a look so incongruous there that it was over-the-top chic. I walked in and plunked down over $300 (in 1990 dollars) on a custom cowboy shirt with embroidered cowgirls on the yokes. I don’t know what I was thinking, but everyone loved it (no, there were no boots or hats to go with it). Along with many other quirky items, it ended up in a trunk here of seldom worn, but sometimes revisited kooky clothing. But, there were times that I simply got frustrated with so much unused fashion that I would bundle up a batch and bring it to the local, Aid’s charity thrift store on Alton road.

About a month ago, I entered my outer office which doubles as a dressing room on weekends for the “girls”, and ran into Geraldine preparing to do a Patsy Cline number with the Katy K shirt. “OMG!” I shouted, “That’s a Katy K; let me see the label.” I didn’t remember ever getting rid of it, but I knew there couldn’t have been many others. “I got it for FIVE dollars at the thrift store,” she said. I explained it’s history and rampaged through my old clothes collection when I got home. It wasn’t there. At some point I had gathered it up for donation.

Geraldine offered it back, but I refused because it had found a whole new life, just as I had here in South Beach. It was once again being paraded around to the amusement of the crowd. She let me take it home to scan and Leopoldo gasped as he ran his fingers across the embroidery. He is always asking about my time in New York as a Party Animal and he had a piece of dinosaur history to hold.

I’ve decided not to actually try to fit into it, though, in the interest of both Geraldine and myself. Dinosaur skin—even the most expensive--shrinks with time; I doubt it would fit.

Another Bingo Night came around and we found it very well-attended with a great assortment of locals and visitors from New York, Paris, Columbia, and Costa Rica. It was a very energised crowd: hard-fisted drinking, talking dirty, and given to counting the doilies in a room. Early on, Leopoldo and Thomas accepted my gift of a good luck charm for their first bingo game; Leopoldo's mother had sent it from San Francisco as a gift to me, and I keep it on my desk to ward off demons.

The roller coaster has slowed considerably; school has begun and teachers, professors, and--of course--the students who all frequent The Palace everyday now have other demands. Even the tourists have slowed somewhat, although the strong Euro keeps up the flow.

What has happened to me in the last few days was not an unending social schedule; it was the loss of electricity for two days. An utter horror, it was not even the result of a hurricane or terrorist action. It was a lizard. Yes, when the "electrical engineers" uncovered the breaker box (in my presence, mind you), there it was: an electrocuted lizard under the main breaker that fed the entire property. I call it the $700 Lizard now and is not big enough to make a lizard skin pinky ring. Sleeping without electricity is impossible in a Miami summer even with a Xanax AND an Ambien, but we lived and discovered, from the ravishingly handsome Polish protector, Marc, that YouTube has a fun piece of our Hairspray Ball, here.

I took a rare afternoon off to be with Leopold, who used his nine day vacation to stay with me, a motion that has not gone unnoticed. We went to "Invasion" today and after the movie I mentioned that I was going to the mens' room only to come out to see him frantically talking to an employee (he hadn't heard me). Leo ran up and hugged me like some sort of milk carton child and the theater employee said, "You found him?" I laughed, "Oh, you can take me off the Missing Persons List." and she cackled, "We only have Lost and Found." We all laughed.

Some of the most glamorous ladies in society put on their finest to attend the great ball at The Palace last night. Despite war, famine, and insurrection, the grandest gowns and jewels adorned these women; young men begged for introductions and reporters had to be whipped away. It was so good to return to those carefree days which so often seem to have slipped through our gloved fingers.
I wasn't through preparing for the ball when a rabid photographer caught me looking for the social doyens who were slipping through the back door to escape notice.
Soon thereafter, they arrived in force.

Days fly by so fast, and it isn't even season. There was a non-stop parade of parties from Tuesday's Martini Night by Edison Farrow up until last night's movie night by Scottie at Twist. And, although these events have always lined up like this, perhaps the very best part of it all is to have a dashingly handsome man on your arm, one everyone now expects to be in that place. Social life takes on new meaning whether you have the next mayor in tow or you are in a bowling alley; everything is brighter in a town that glows 24 hours a day.
We thought we were ending the day at Scottie's presentation of the original La Cage Aux Folles (next week is Birdcage). It was well-attended and hilarious.

While proper society ladies are engaged in charitable bingo, The Great Northern Court is spinning out of control. In addition to performing African dances at places named "Rumpy's Tavern", The Countess has enticed my sister--by all accounts still a proper lady--into mocking me with this.

In past days of glory, I would have sent the Great Southern Fleet north to bombard them. Times being what they are, we have to The Fleet at dock so The Countess will continue to "act up" unfettered.

Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish (unfortunately referred to at Mrs. Styrofoam-Flinch this weekend by my beloved, Leopold) threw her formidable weight behind Commissioner Bower's campaign in a delightful meeting yesterday.

We will all be gathering at Scottie's movie tonight. It will be a tastful gathering, unlike the out-of-control-madness of The Countess. In the Good Old Days, she would be hauled before a council and reprimanded, perhaps even locked up for a while.

Tiaras at Rumpy's; the horror is to much to comprehend.

Scottie's movie tomorrow night at Twist (10 PM upstairs in the VIP lounge) is the original La Cage Aux Folles. As usual it will be a gathering of The Faithful. It is one of the first "beach" events I brought Leopoldo to and it will remain a staple of the "beach" diet. Leopold has become the most important thing keeping me here; I had an offer in another country, but can't accept it now. He is everything I ever hoped for.

We entertained commissioner Bower yesterday at The Palace for a photo shoot and then dragged her over to Twist's happy hour. What a good sport; she never stopped talking to the boys and reinforced my opinion that she will scoop the gay vote. We also find her ahead in the Mid-Beach Jewish vote and and back-breaker in the North-Beach Hispanic vote. I've said from the beginning: "You capture the gay vote and the women vote, and it doesn't matter how much special-interest-money your opponent has; HE WILL LOSE.

Late Wednesday afternoon I secluded myself and Leopold into the movies, turning the cells off, of course. When we came out and put them back on I knew something had "happened" by the number of messages. As it turned out, Commissioner Bower's staff were frantically trying to reach me to ask if I was "available"; she wanted to attend Thomas Barker's birthday bash and needed an escort into that stratified crowd. I had already told Leopold about these occasional duties with the next mayor, so I gave the go-ahead.

The day is here, and Thomas Barker assured me this morning that I will not have to use his body double tonight, which is good because there is no one who can quite be Thomas Barker.
The buzz about the birthday party has been building all week with locals re-arranging their work schedules, planning arrival times, and--of course--deciding what to wear. (Leopold, in particular, is wringing his hands about the appropriately extravagant outfit.) A genuinely nice guy, Thomas would command a loyal following naturally; the fact that he writes one of the most-read gossip (or as he like to refer to it: "entertainment") columns will assure the attendance of everyone else. Remember: the only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about.

The official plan calls for cocktails at The Palace between six and eight so that any necessary gossip can be quietly exchanged in a safe setting and, after Halo becomes too packed to move, to return and gossip about everyone we ran into. Yes, it's shallow, but it's what we do best.

According to The Herald, a new sport has quickly taken on: swimming with the gators. "The experts stress it's foolhardy, daft, dumb and every other word meaning stupid..." read The Herald, going back to my long-held notion that stupid people deserve to be eaten by my friends, the alligators (who have enough to deal with in the fight for territory with the pythons). Maybe they don't want to be photographed in their caves, but there is an interesting slide show here showing what these guys find under the murky water. Manny Puig, one of these new daredevils, was the spotlight of the article; "And, just like humans, they're all different, Puig says. ``Some alligators are psychopaths; some are not.' '' That's about as reassuring as walking up Washington Avenue at 5 AM; let's see "Some homeless crack addicts are psychopaths; some are not. But most are, so maybe I shouldn't ever walk up Washington Avenue, period." It won't be long before someone disappears and is hidden by an alligator in it's cave for snacking on; they like to stash prey for later. Then there will be the rescue effort and all the alligators will have their lives turned upside down because of a stupid person.

Another legend slipped into history with the death of Brooke Astor. You know a legend when they have been photographed by Cecil Beaton Married to the grandson of The Mrs. Astor, Caroline, Brooke--more than anyone else--is credited with saving many of the institutions of New York City so taken for granted today. Hopefully, her final days were made all the better by Annette de la Renta.

Scottie's showing of Mommie Dearest was a supreme hit last night, and we all gathered for cocktails tonight to pick next week's. Let's see...La Cage aux Folles or Funny Face. Hmmmm. Special attention was paid to The Countess Bedelia's antics up North: wearing a tiara at Rumpy's Tavern; we called up photos on her site of such action. What can you say? She says she was bringing culture or something to the peasants; I say the only thing brought to the peasants should be the wrong end of a saber. My talk is hollow, though, without Jeremy; Neil is a loyal guard, but he's better at waving a xylophone stick than a saber. I guess he could lull the unwashed masses scaling the fence with daggers in their teeth with some of his music while I slip out the back door with Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish (if she's sober enough to not want to actually "meet" some peasants and teach them literacy). And, poor Thomas Barker is not doing well; we have gone into super care mode to make sure he's OK. A finely-tuned assembly line of friends is taking over his care, but the poor baby's birthday is Wednesday and I told him we might have to carry him in on a divan because the party must go on. The entire town will be going to Halo to celebrate, and if I have to put a broomstick up his back and prop him up for the night, it will be. This town does not take "No" as an answer.

No one should forget that Scottie is showing Mommie Dearest tonight in his continuing series, Gay Classics 101 at 10 PM, upstairs at Twist in the cozy VIP section. I still find it amusing to listen to the debate about whether Faye Dunaway over-acted or she was just really portraying the actual Joan Crawford. After ten years on South Beach over-acting is a difficult thing to distinguish from the norm. In fact, "the norm" probably is over-acting; normal people are either ignored or mocked here. We'll all pay close attention tonight. Was Faye over-acting or is she just another neighbor across the way?

Mr. and Mrs. Astor were honored to be the guests at the gracious dinner held at the pied-a-terre of Lady Nell Bottomswell-Bigsley-Cochraigne, affectionately known as Miss BBC. The Lady's brilliant beau, Nicholas, entranced us with local stories of hurricanes, legal briefs, and just down-right amusement. It was a shared moment for both couples, and we regret with deep feeling the impending return of the good Lady to her homeland.